


heaven is a place on earth

by magical_realism27



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - San Junipero, F/F, First Kiss, First Meetings, mentions of blindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9581684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magical_realism27/pseuds/magical_realism27
Summary: “The things people enjoy most about this place aren’t why I came.”“Well, San Junipero is a party town” Rory intones.“Well, I’m not a party girl.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes, this is a gilmore girls san junipero AU and yes it came to me while watching The Spring Break Episode TM

Rory can appreciate a good 90s pastiche as much as the next girl raised on  _ Buffy  _ and Crystal Pepsi. But, she thinks without a shred of irony, isn’t the whole seaside shantytown thing a bit overplayed? 

Honestly when Rory said she’d give the whole San Junipero thing a whirl she’d regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth, but Lane had looked so  _ happy  _ and her boys had looked so  _ happy _ , and Rory had never been vain exactly but she’d always been smart, and she knew what a knockout she’d been in her youth. 

So, a chance to have the body of a 20 year old with the foresight of a 103 year old? You’d have to be criminally insane to pass that up. 

But now that she was actually  _ here,  _ she had to admit that maybe she had unwisely played up her foresight-abilities. She’d been a nebbish, awkward wallflower in her youth, and she is a nebbish, awkward wallflower during her second turn around the merry-go-round. Turns out throngs of riotous adolescents are just as anxiety-inducing the second time around, and picturing them as they truly are - arthritic sadsacks with age-spots and chicken wing arms - quickly loses its novelty.

So Rory truly surprises herself when she enters what can be generously described as a club instead of continuing onto the boardwalk. 

It’s probably just to escape the sea air, she tells herself. Said breeze is quickly replaced with the armpit-and-alcohol smell that permeates every frat party worth its salt. She navigates her way to the bar with all the  Grand Dame Grace of the late Emily Gilmore herself. 

“Hey can I get a -” she totally chokes “White wine, um, spritzer?” she asks the bartender with the frosted tips. His eyes say  _ hell no  _ but he complies like a good millenial resigned to an after-life of working for tips. He plunks a straw into her drink with an air of defeat. 

Rory sips. The bar-stool vinyl is sticky underneath her. Salt-N-Pepa  _ Shoops  _ from the speakers above her like their lives depend on it, or maybe just their album sales. 

Album. 

There’s a word she hasn’t thought about in a very long time. She’s just begun turning the word over in her mouth when someone plunks down on the stool next to her with the same air of defeat as a straw going into a white wine spritzer. 

Rory doesn’t turn to face the person but if she looks down she sees legs. 

They’re nice legs. 

Muscled and sunkissed. Well, maybe sunkissed is too kind. It looks like the Sun had their way with this girl’s legs. 

She’s lobster red, is what Rory means. 

But what’s truly interesting is the stranger’s choice of footwear. Not pumps or sandals, but tennis shoes. Hospital-white, and a little too big. Comfort over style. Rory can respect that. For some reason she keeps staring at the shoes as they tap against the floor with furious impatience. In this club, which pulses to both the beat of RnB hits and the heartbeats of horny, inhibition-free young adults, the white tennis shoes and red legs have a hypnotically calming aura. 

“Do I have to hop this bar to get service? Because I will.” The harsh snap of her voice makes Rory look up. The top half of this girl is just as oddly pleasing as the bottom. The unfortunate sunburn is peeling at her chest. Her blonde hair is half frizzy and half matted-down with sweat. 

“Listen, lady-” the poor bartender starts. 

“No, you listen, because this is the second time I’ve told you my drink order. If you make me say ‘blueberry daiquiri’ again this place is going to implode due to the sheer force of my embarrassment.” her voice, when raised like that, reaches the caliber that female politician-hating political commentators would call “shrill.” Rory kind of loves it, it makes her chest flip a bit and it makes her wonder what things would make that voice ratchet up even higher. 

Funny, she thought she was too old for that. 

The bartender says something else, which, obviously a mistake, but Rory doesn’t hear because she is too busy trying to pluck up the courage to introduce herself to this girl. 

“Hey, I’m-” She starts, but it gets lost in the volume of the girl’s scathing reply to Frosted Tips’s insolence. 

“What!” The girl turns her ire on Rory, somehow making the most basic of questions not sound like one at all. “Is there something on my face?” She turns her head fully towards Rory, and what a face it is. 

“No, no.” Rory squeaks out. 

“Good. Because I have had a record night of social gaffes and just eaten two onion blossoms, so really I’m just hedging my bets here.” 

Rory laughs. Loudly, half because of the wine and half to match this girl’s tone. 

“I’m Rory.” the girl doesn’t return the sentiment, and seems to be turning away. 

Possessed by desperation, she shouts.

“Do you wanna get out of here!” she’s really, really yelling now, drawing the attention of some dancers on the dance floor. 

“I haven’t gotten my drink yet.” 

“Fuck the drink.”

  


So, Rory is back on the boardwalk before even 11 p.m. 

“I’m Paris.” her voice is a little hoarse now. Rory can’t stop looking at her bright, bright eyes. 

“Like the city?” 

“Well, not like the hotel mogul’s progeny.” 

They walk in silence for a minute. There are a few distant, isolated whoops and hollers, and the crash of waves, but for the most part it is quiet enough for Rory to hear Paris’s breathing. 

“So, come here often?” she mumbles, rubbing her nose and turning away. Rory belatedly realizes Paris might be even more clumsy and inept at hitting on girls than her. 

“This is my first night.”

“No offense, but I could tell. You were shooting off serious virgin vibes.”

“You seem like a seasoned veteran.”

“Well, I am a local.” 

“No way! A full-time resident?” Rory squeals like a teenybopper at an Elvis show. Paris looks like she wants to bolt. 

“Almost a month now.”

“And yet you’re with me, a Virgin San Juniperean. Juniper? Junipian?” 

“The things people enjoy most about this place aren’t why I came.”

“Well, San Junipero is a party town” Rory intones. 

“Well, I’m not a party girl.” 

“So, why come? If you don’t mind me asking.” Rory shivers, she wishes she’d brought a jacket. 

“Same reason I imagine everyone comes. Sick of hospital beds and nursing homes.”

“Where are you now?”

“Boston. Palliative care.”

“Ah. Same boat. Stars Hollow Treatment Center in Connecticut.” 

“We’re close.”

“We’re even closer now.” her voice is heavy with something. Lust. Anticipation. Invitation.

They’ve reached the end of the boardwalk. Paris keeps walking, straight into the sand. She doesn't take off her tennis shoes.

“Is that really the only reason you’re here? Boredom?”  Rory has to jog a little to match pace with Paris. 

“No.” 

Rory thinks that’s all she’s going to get until Paris abruptly sits in the sand. The lamps of the boardwalk are far behind them, and the ocean blends into the sky. Its gaping and pitch black and a little dangerous, the exact opposite of a hospital bed. 

“I came for the entertainment.” her voice is small. “Books and movies. And the view.” 

Rory understands suddenly, like a wave hitting the shore. 

“Were you born blind?”

“There was an accident. I was 17.” silence stretches out between them. “I don’t want to complain.” she twists suddenly towards Rory. “I had an amazing life. And now I have the chance for an amazing afterlife. But it’s just that I don’t want to be stuck in one place.”

“You sound like my mother.” Rory isn’t surprised she’s said it, even though it hurts. It’s been too long for that. 

“Is she here too? I’ve seen a lot of deaged parent-child duos. The novelty wears off.”

“No, she- she died before the implants became commonplace.” the tears don’t really surprise her either, as much as she hates to admit it. The emotion is too raw to be embarrassed of. It’s a long time before Rory is calm enough to collect herself, but Paris is still beside her as she wipes away her tears as fast and as steady as they come, until she's swiping at damp cheeks. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why that happened.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re not the first pretty girl I’ve made cry.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Rory says through her stuffed nose. 

“Don’t be dense, it’s unbecoming. You have to know you’re a smoke show.” 

“It’s been a long time since someone called me pretty.”

“Oh, I imagine you’re all veins now.” Paris concedes and Rory does another surprisingly deep laugh, and it carries right into the ocean,  echoing for a sweet moment. “But they probably just bring out those ridiculously blue eyes. I mean, they’re insane. I noticed them even when you were hiding in the corner of the room. They’re why I came over to the bar.” 

“I thought you came over for the blueberry daiquri.” Rory turns to Paris, and is surprised at how close she’s gotten without Rory noticing. She has freckles on her nose as well as a sunburn, Rory can see in the dimness of the night. 

“I’d say they’re about the same color, wouldn’t you?”

  


Paris’s grin splits her face. Their hearts thunder louder than the ocean. When they kiss, Rory feels 20 again for the first time all night.

  



End file.
